Not So Merry Steele
by RSteele82
Summary: (AU Universe) Finally free of the hostage holding Santas but now facing Laura's departure for Connecticut where her presence has been demanded by her Mother for the remainder of the holidays, Remington and Laura celebrate their first Christmas together as a committed couple.
1. Chapter 1: The Angst of Giving

Chapter 1: The Angst of Giving

Remington paused outside the door to the loft and dug deep for even a touch of the holiday spirit Laura was infused with at this time of the year. It was no secret he held no fondness in his heart for the Christmas holidays, having learned long ago that the genial fat man garbed in red didn't hold all children in the same regard no matter what the myth guaranteed. Far too often in his youth, he'd seen the most foul spirited of children rewarded for their poor behavior, behavior much poorer than his own, while he received not even the lump of proverbial coal in his non-existent stocking. In truth, there were a handful of years where he'd have been grateful for nothing more than a warm place to kip on the eve of the holiday or most thankful for a badly bruised piece of fruit which might have saved his belly from aching. But even those were not to be granted, not to one such as he.

As he'd grown older, and the story of the mythical man had been debunked, his lack of enthusiasm for the holiday had not waned. If anything, it'd grown all the stronger now that he was able to see through the eyes of an adult the absurdity of people touting good will to _all_ men on this singular day. Perhaps good will to all men of some means, but not to the street urchins, the homeless, the derelict, the shut-in… the forgotten. In truth, he'd learn to dodge the holiday as best he could, swaddled as it always was in disappointment. In the years since he'd arrived in LA, in fact, he'd made it a point to light out on his own, schussing some mountain slope here or lying on the warm sands with a long, cool pina colada in hand there, all in attempt to avoid the forced revelry and fruitless hopes.

The first year he'd assumed the mantle of Remington Steele, it had been easy enough to disappear for several days with arousing too many unwanted questions. After all, it wasn't as though he punched a clock or was even relied on for that matter. The second year he'd fretted a bit, given his and Laura's personal involvement, but the worry had been for naught. Every two years it was preordained by her mother and sister that she would trek back East and revel in the bosom of her family, even if she wasn't too keen on doing so. The damnable Cannes Agreement last year had, of course, seen to it that there were no questions about his plans for the holiday. The offices would be closed and except for making an appearance with Laura on New Year's Eve at the annual Crockett shindig where they'd be able to network amongst the rich and famous, there wasn't a single expectation of his involvement in any holiday affairs. It had taken every ounce of his cleverness to rope Laura into a night of the ballet, _The Nutcracker,_ of course, but he didn't see that as a Christmas festivity, but a tradition to them.

But damned if he hadn't found a small part of himself… alright, perhaps a bit more than a 'small' part… actually looking forward to the holiday this year. The Agency would be closed for nearly two full weeks as people focused on hearth and home. As such, he'd begun to imagine sweeping Laura away for a week, maybe even ten days, on a romantic jaunt. Just the two of them, no interruptions, and, at long last, none of that separate but equal nonsense. Ten glorious days where they could concentrate on only themselves and what continued to grow between them. The only question in his mind had been the where of it: Maui, Figi, Switzerland, Tahiti… they had each contended for a bit only to be tossed aside. Finally, recalling a conversation between himself and Walter Gallen, he'd settled on Vail. A private home outside of the village, offered up by Gallen to Remington anytime he might make use of it; a quaint village which would enchant his lady fair; the two of them schussing the slopes together as they'd once hoped to do in Aspen, huddling together by the fire afterward to chase away the chill; and, most important of all, absolute solitude, allowing them to revel in what was truly important: each other. He'd even harbored fantasies that perhaps free of all distractions and immersed solely in one another, he might at last find a way to say those words he felt but which stuck firmly in his throat whenever he considered giving them voice. True, there was a certain enjoyment, from time to time, of her attempts to subtly pry the words from him and he enjoyed her pique in those moments, but truth of the matter was, he'd never said them before and the possibility they wouldn't be exchanged, scared the bloody hell out of him.

It was a marvelous plan, Vail was, one which truly tickled his fancy. He'd even planned how he'd get her to acquiesce, understanding she'd put up an argument purely for principle's sake: A good meal, a little wine, a bit of dancing, kisses shared while basking in the warmth of the fire, his lips trailing down that graceful neck of hers as he whispered the words, 'Steele away with me'. But damned if the woman hadn't turned _that_ plan completely on end. Firstly, by using her own considerable and captivating wiles like a weapon against him until he'd capitulated and agreed to be present for the Agency open house. Then, secondly, only adding insult to injury in his eyes, announcing on the heels of his surrender that she'd be leaving the afternoon of the twenty-sixth for Connecticut. The semi-annual command performance, he'd learned, hadn't been cancelled but merely delayed due to the Agency open house. What's more, she'd be gone until January fourth, as she'd been enlisted to help pack up Frances and Donald's house in preparation for their move to the LA area. With that, he'd watched even the annual New Year's Crocket bash go up in smoke. They'd attended _The Nutcracker_ four nights previously, so at least there had been that. But it wasn't enough, not nearly so. His mood had been swinging from petulant to churlish to disheartened ever since.

A mood not at all improved by his attempts to purchase Laura a Christmas gift. Oh, he'd tried, having gone out a time or two… or six. But the impossibility of it all had thoroughly flummoxed him. In years past he'd bestowed upon her household items: decent cookware to replace the appalling collection of pots and pans stored in her cabinets; a suitable set of wine glasses; and an acceptable set of chef's knives on another. In all their years of association, he'd given her one truly personal gift which held a hint of meaning behind it, the heart locket, and he'd watched as she'd taken the box from him with a good deal of trepidation. She'd thanked him for the gift, had, in fact, seemed truly touched by the sentiment, but he could count on one hand… half of a hand… how many times he'd seen the locket dangling about her neck in the years since.

What to do… what to do. A silk nightgown and bathrobe, as she seemed to enjoy his nighttime attire so? Mmmm, no. Most certainly a gift which could be interpreted wrongly in any number of ways. A frown crinkling her nose as she wondered if the gift meant he was solely interested in their bedroom antics, the gift signifying exactly that. A slight downturn of her lips and dulling of those beautiful brown eyes as she wondered if this meant he was dissatisfied with her current choice of bedtime attire, a bit of her self-confidence dashed. A slight narrowing of her eyes as she chafed that he'd dare to believe he had any input, whatsoever, in determining what she wore and when. A nibble of her lower lip and a tentative thank you, discomfited by the intimacy of the gift. No, none of those potential outcomes would do, not at all. And, truth be told, he _enjoyed_ seeing her delectable form draped in his pajama top, wrapped up in his too long robes, the intimacy implied in such an act inarguable, fairly shouting 'At least here in this moment, I am yours.'

He'd considered a bauble of some kind. A bracelet? A ring? A pair of earrings? To do so would risk receiving the same nervous look which had accompanied his gift of the locket. At the mere thought, those ideas were easily, and regretfully, discarded. Oh, how he wished she'd stop being afraid of allowing her emotions to rein free with him, that she'd stop worrying she was in too deep. Those hesitancies incited his own insecurities. _How long until she cuts and run again?_ he often worried. It was exhausting, the time spent wondering how long it was to be, this time, before she lowered the axe on them again. A gift which expressed, quite tangibly, that his feelings for her went far, far beyond a mere shag, could see him once again taken to his knees. No, he couldn't have that… never that, especially incited by his own hand.

Oh, in his overnight bag were stored a few small presents, one of which had left him scrambling at the last minute to come up with. Gifts he knew she'd enjoy but at the same time hinted that it was he, far and above anyone else, who knew her best. But, still, he'd been determined to find _something_ truly personal which could easily be dismissed as practical should he see a hint of nerves from his perennially skittish partner. He'd finally decided on a watch. An attractive gold watch with a scattering of diamonds across its face. Had even thought he might have its back inscribed… 'As time goes by'… a reminder that she was forever to him _his_ Ilsa. But then had to set that idea aside as well, for there was no hedging away from the intent meant by _that_ inscription. Still, a watch it would be. Personal enough, for he'd selected it with great care and it would be worn upon her person, but still holding a practicality that could be grasped at should that nervous look appear upon her face once more.

All that had remained was to pick it up as he'd already rung up the jeweler and had it set aside for his purchase. But, of course, first there was the Agency open house to attend. Then those bloody Santas had appeared, holding them all hostage. He'd watched as the hours ticked by, the store closed, and his chance to retrieve her gift disappeared.

With a sigh, he hoped now that the few small gifts hidden within his overnight bag coupled with an explanation about the watch would suffice.

Finally, with a lift of his shoulder and having plastered on a smile, he lifted his hand to knock upon the loft door.

* * *

Laura nervously smoothed her hands over her attire and wondered for the dozenth time if the outfit would be a hit or a miss. The red and white striped wrap dress tied at the waist and fit snug to the waist where it flared out into a full skirt that stopped short at mid-thigh and had been topped off with a Santa hat sitting upon hair which had been pulled back in the front but left hanging free in back. A pair of white stockings and red stilettos competed the outfit. And underneath? The first piece of truly decadent lingerie that she'd worn for the man. Wilson would have been appalled by the little scrap of lace and silk, proclaiming it 'trashy', but she suspected the man at her door would disagree. Still, she'd once thought such garments would get a rise out of Wilson and she'd been wrong. That she might be misjudging Remington's reaction was enough to set loose a host of butterflies in her stomach.

She gave the loft a final glance. The tree tucked into the alcove, fully lit, presents for him scattered beneath its boughs. White comforter, folded neatly, and topped with a selection of red and white pillows, positioned against the wall by the tree. A bottle of champagne chilling in a silver bucket, flutes sitting next to it, ready for use. Red and white candles set atop the piano, with their flames dancing. Across the room in yet another alcove, a dining table covered in white linen, set with white plates, accented with red napkins and topped with another pair of lit candles flanking a full poinsettia. A bottle of wine, two wine glasses and covered services provided by Chez Rives waiting on them. Lights turned low, Christmas carols wafting softly from the speakers scattered throughout the loft, completed the ambiance. And, of course, the mistletoe hung just inside the door, a none too subtle hint that she'd planned an evening of Christmas romance for them. He might have a flair for romance, but hoped he'd appreciate the effort she'd put into making this a lovely evening for them.

On her dresser in the bedroom sat three presents for her Irishman, two presents selected with the greatest of care and a great deal of self-doubt, but she'd pulled her gumption out from somewhere deep within and purchased them anyway. The first, and largest gift, had been easy enough: the entire MGM library, as promised during the Shane case. The second, two pairs of pajamas and a robe that could be kept here at the loft, had been enough to set her heart into palpitations, given there was a risk he might interpret them to mean an expectation of time shared together.

And the third gift? A few weeks back he'd begun dressing complementary to herself, whenever the opportunity allowed him to do so. Much to her chagrin – she was a detective, after all – it had gone unnoticed by her. It was only after she'd spent that Thursday night after the wrap of the Shane case at his place that she'd recognized the subtle act of claiming her for himself. Showered and dressed first, as was their custom when they spent the night together, she'd returned to the bedroom with a cup of tea for each of them, only to find him muttering to himself as he picked through the array of ties hanging in his closet. She'd dressed that morning in a pink blouse, a wheat colored skirt, and had her matching blazer lying on the bed. He wore a suit of similar coloring, with white dress shirt beneath and was currently plucking through his ties muttering 'bloody pink' under his breath. In the end, he'd compromised on a maroon tie and kerchief, clearly disgruntled he'd had to settle.

She'd made no mention of what she'd overheard, wagering he'd be embarrassed by such a mention. But she'd stored the memory in her mind, retrieving it with a contented smile on those long, lonely nights spent by herself in her bed, without her Mr. Steele's comforting warmth beside her. Thus, with his wardrobe and hers in mind, she'd made the dreaded shopping trip, willing to sacrifice her loathing of the task in order to accomplish her goal. So now, beneath the tree, ensconced in a carefully wrapped box, were six ties and matching kerchiefs which would allow him the latitude of marrying up any number of pieces of their wardrobe. The very idea made her palms sweat and her eye twitch.

Remington had done his best to hide his disappointment when she'd announced she'd be leaving the day after Christmas for Connecticut, despite her honest assurances it wasn't by choice but command. He'd failed, miserably, but then again, so had she. Even worse, she had a sneaking suspicion he'd been making plans for the holidays for them, only to see them dashed. It wasn't as though she _wanted_ to go to Connecticut. Hell, in her opinion the bi-annual tradition was a sure fire way to cast a pall over the holiday she loved most. And this year? She was more reticent than ever to honor the command, as she'd much prefer to spend it with him, enjoying whatever plans he'd concocted in that mind of his. But there had been no choice. To cancel would mean listening for _months_ as her mother lamented how on earth she managed to raise a daughter with so little concern for _family._

The only choice had been to make the most of what little time they'd have together. _A good chunk of that stolen by Dancer and gang,_ she woefully acknowledged to herself. She found that annoyed her more than being held hostage had. Setting the thought aside, she gave the room one final glance, then reached for the handle of the door, while concentrating on setting free the wild and impetuous Laura she'd buried a long, long time ago…


	2. Chapter 2: Presence, Presents

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 material. If not comfortable with such material or if under age 17, please continue to chapter 3.**_

* * *

Chapter 2: Presence, Presents

Laura pulled open the door to the loft, a smile lifting her lips and her eyes sparkling. She nibbled at her lip as Remington's gaze roamed from the tip of the Santa hat to the tip of her toes, his nervous smile replaced by one of utter, masculine appreciation of the woman before him.

"You're stunning, Laura," he hummed, while leaning in to buss her upon the cheek.

"Thank you," she answered, projecting a confidence she was still trying to own. "Come in," she directed with a wave of her hand. Happily complying, he gave her a questioning look when he was stopped by a palm to his chest after only taking three steps into the loft. "It's Christmas tradition, Mr. Steele." He followed her eyes to where they looked upwards, spotting the mistletoe hanging above their heads. The grin reappeared on his lips.

"Far be it from me to besmirch tradition, Miss Holt," he answered with a raised brow, while dropping his overnight bag to the floor. An arm extended around her waist and drew her close, as his lips descended to meet hers. His hand cupped the back of neck, stepping closer still as his lips danced over hers before his mouth settled to tease, nip, then delve slowly and deeply. Her hands caressed his upper arms then slipped behind him to feather over his back. She hummed softly, as sparks danced across her skin where his hand stroked her lower back. Ending the kiss, he grinned at her slightly dazed look and the way she swayed briefly, before finding her footing again. She blinked hard and found her faculties.

"I had Claude send over dinner," she told him, as she walked towards the dining table. "Carre d'Agneau for dinner accompanied by a 1982 Chateau La Conseillante Bordeaux and Tarte Tartin for dessert."

"Claude has excellent taste," he noted, picking up the bottle of wine and examining the label before filling each glass halfway. "A truly outstanding Bordeaux, the best produced by La Conseillante since 1970." Holding out her chair, he waited until she was seated, then removed the cover from each plate and set them on the kitchen counter. "The tarts?" he inquired as he took his seat across from her.

"Warming in the oven. You have nothing to worry about," she scolded him lightly, "Claude provided _very_ specific instructions."

They kept conversation over dinner simple and light, tiptoeing around the elephant in the room. Finally, tossing down his napkin on the table out of utter frustration, he strode into the kitchen, yanked the tarts from the oven and set them on the counter then turned it off. Returning to Laura, he held out his hand.

"You don't want dessert?" she asked, baffled by his abrupt actions.

"No, Laura, I don't want the bloody tart. I've…" He glanced at his watch "A little more than seventeen hours with you, and I don't wish to spend a second of that time on anything but you." He held his hand closer to her. "Dance with me." She lay her napkin on the table, then took his hand, standing.

"Alright," she agreed, then walked with him towards the center of the room, willingly stepping into the frame of his arms when he faced her.

Silence lingered as they danced to Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald crooning "Moonlight in Vermont" before its final strands gave way to The Carpenter's "Merry Christmas, Darling." He snorted silently to himself, somehow the song selection thus far not only befitting his mood, but giving voice to it. Laura tipped back her head and looked up at him.

"What is it?" Remington's brows knitted as he look down at her.

"Hmmmm?"

"You… snorted." He drew back his head and looked at her aghast.

"I did nothing of the sort. Might I remind you Remington Steele has impeccable man—" She rolled her eyes at him and held up a hand off his shoulders.

"Alright, alright. No need to give me the spiel," she interrupted. "Guffawed, laughed with derision, snickered, sniggled, whatev—"

"Sniggled?" The term caught his fancy and he grinned.

"Sniggled," she confirmed, drawing a hand over his shoulder and down his back. "What's on your mind?" Pursing his lips, he averted his head, considering the question at length.

"Lamenting the Christmas that could have been, I suppose," he finally answered, returning his gaze to her. "I was better off when I avoided the holiday rather than to pinning any form of hope upon it."

"I'll admit Dancer and company put a damper on the start of the holiday, but we're here now," she pointed out.

"And I without the gift I'd placed on hold but was unable to pick up, not to mention you departing tomorrow for well more than a week," he countered in a pout. Her lips quirked upwards.

"I'm sure you'll survive without sex for ten days, Mr. Steele," she quipped dryly. Stilling his feet, he bent his head and gave her a censuring look.

"I'll neither apologize for wanting to make love with you and damn well enjoying it when we do nor for being grateful we've finally crossed that line," he scolded lightly. He lay two fingers under her chin, lifting it, then waited until she made eye contact. "But this… between us… is about far more than just a shag and you _know it_." She blinked at what his words implied, trying not to read too much into them.

"A poor attempt at a joke," she brushed off, "Nothing more."

"You, Laura, I'll miss _you_ ," he clarified, as his feet began to move again. "It's rare the Agency is closed for any time span, let alone twelve days straight. I'd hoped to sweep you off to Vail for ten days or so, where we could schuss the slopes, spend time together and enjoy a bit of romance. No Mildred to interrupt, no phones ringing, no clients demanding our attention, no—"

"Bullets flying?" she finished for him, fingers caressing a shoulder.

"Precisely." He drew her a bit closer, while ducking down to rest his cheek against the side of her head. She sighed deeply.

"Sounds like heaven," she admitted, longingly. Tilting her head back, she regarded him. "Do you think we're capable of spending ten days together without driving each other mad?" His brows lifted as a smile touched his lips.

"I should think so. We live each weekend together in perfect harmony, do we not?" They did and it still shocked the hell out of her… but then again, maybe it didn't. She wasn't willing to traipse down the road where _that_ thought might lead her.

"Yes, we do," she agreed aloud, as her fingers massaged a shoulder. "If I could get out of going, I would, but—"

"You'd never hear the end of it," he finished, resignedly. "Believe me, I understand, but I can't help wish it were different."

"Myself as well." She tipped her head back to look at him, her fingers moving to weave through his hair. "But we have tonight, tomorrow morning." He leaned down to steal a sweet kiss.

"Then maybe we should move ahead in the festivities, hmmm?" A lopsided smile appeared on his face in answer to the sparkling eyes and unrestrained smile that greeted the suggestion.

"Would you mind pouring the champagne?" she asked as she turned on the lights of the tree, then spread out comforter and pillows before it. He eyed the spread with a raised brow as she climbed the stairs to her room, then watched as she returned with several packages to place beneath the tree. As she moved to place a tape in the stereo and dim the lights, he popped the cork of the bottle and poured them each half a flute of the bubbly. As the sounds of Bing Crosby crooning "White Christmas" began trickling through the loft, Remington retrieved the three gifts he'd brought with him for Laura and placed those under the tree.

"Dom Perignon—" he observed, handing her one of the glasses once she'd sat on the comforter she'd spread out.

"Seventy-six," she completed for him, with a smile and sparkle in her eyes. He sat down next to her, an answering smile on his lips and dancing in his eyes.

"I'm impressed, Miss Holt." She raised her brows and pursed her lips, playfully.

"I thought you might approve. I seem to recall you ordering it a time or two during a certain trip to San Francisco," she mused.

"Mmmm. Well, let's just hope we've more success enjoying it this time than we did the last," he reminded her, drolly, drawing a laugh across her lips.

"What should we toast to?" He gave the question some thought.

"To time together… blissfully _alone_." Tapping their glasses together, they entwined arms and enjoyed a sip, before Remington set his glass aside and hooking his fingers around the back of Laura's neck, drew her lips to his. He savored her lips, nibbling, tasting, teasing. Blindly setting down her own glass, one hand buried itself in his hair, while the fingers of her other hand stroked with a feather light touch around and behind his ear. He could taste the smile on her lips in answer to the tremor which raced through his body in response to her touch.

"You know I can't think when you do that, Laura," he murmured against her lips, before sampling them again.

"It's not your mind I'm interested in at the moment, Mr. Steele," she hummed against his lips, locking her mouth to his and easing backwards, the momentum pulling him down and atop her. He shifted slightly, taking more weight on his arms and off her petite frame.

"The presents?" he managed, before touching the tip of his tongue to her lips, then moaning softly when she opened to allow his entrance. Their tongues tangled and danced, before she paused the kiss once more.

"Santa comes at night," she gasped, drawing her fingers lightly down his back, when his mouth returned to hers to explore further. Her soft touch left his back arching, his hips grinding into hers. He couldn't get enough of her lips, her mouth, the taste of her intermingling with the champagne.

"Presents in the morning then?" he managed, before seeking her lips again, only to find himself flipped to his back. He chuckled as she straddled his hips, a determined look on her face.

"There's one present I don't think you'll want to wait until morning to unwrap," she answered, chest rising and falling. Her tongue flicked against her lips, appreciating the taste of him which still lingered there.

"Oh?" He turned his head to look under the tree, wondering which she might mean.

"The present I'm speaking of is not under the tree, Remington." The dulcet tone of her voice, along with the small hand guiding his much larger one to the sash of her dress fully stole his attention. The corner of his mouth crooked upwards, along with his brows.

"For me?"

"For tonight, at least." He pulled her down to him for another long, probing kiss before releasing her then tugging the bow of the sash free. Slowly he peeled back the dress, his eyes darkening with desire as he revealed red satin and white lace. He swallowed hard, amazed by the remarkable woman before him. He'd probably dreamt of seeing her in such hundreds of times across the years, but given she still struggled to believe that this was more than a quick tango and he'd not shortly depart, he hadn't expected it.

"Santa must be making up for all those Christmases he missed me…" he managed, voice gruff, his fingers reverently tracing the gentle curve of her waist, "Or else I've been very… very… good this year." Turning over his hand, he traced the underside of each breast with the back of his fingers. "You're positively breathtaking, Laura." Her amber eyes shimmered with pure satisfaction at his words. Shrugging off the dress and tossing it aside, her hands quickly worked free his tie. It followed the path of her dress.

"It's only just the beginning." Her fingers quickly slipped down his shirt, releasing one button after another, fumbling when his hand stroked her sensitive abdomen. Her eyes closed briefly, breaths coming short and fast, only to find a heated look and a smug smile greeting her when her eyes reopened. Damn the man, he knew exactly what he was doing, and was letting her know he knew. _Well, two can play that game_ , she reminded herself. She gave him a lascivious smile, that left him swallowing hard again. Smoothing the opening of his shirt apart and baring his chest, she leaned down and flicked her tongue across the sensitive tip of a nipple, then nibbled softly. A groan erupted from deep in his throat, his hips involuntarily lifting from the floor.

"Point made, Miss Holt," he conceded. She'd committed herself, over the last months, to uncovering most of his bodies secrets, and would use them against him… or for him, depending upon the game afoot… any time she pleased. That it was Laura suckling at his chest, sitting upon him while scantily clad, was enough to leave him fighting for control already.

"Oh, I don't think so," she answered, playfully, drawing her fingernails down over his nipples and further south over his abdomen until they stopped at his belt. "As I said, it's _just_ the beginning." She slid off his body. "Stand up, Mr. Steele." He eyed her warily as he followed her direction, then fixed his gaze upon her, watching as she rid him of shoes, socks and belt, pants and briefs following, to be scattered across the floor.

She loved this, everything about it. With Remington there was no 'Not there, Laura,' 'Don't do that, Laura,' or 'I'm not comfortable with that, Laura.' He seemed to enjoy everything she did to him, relished it, and never, for a moment, was afraid to let her know, be it through sound or touch. He freely gave himself over to her, holding nothing of himself back. In turn, he empowered her. She was becoming increasingly bold in their lovemaking, from openly displaying how much she enjoyed that moment when he'd spring long and proud from his restrictive clothing, bared to her eyes… to no longer trying to squelch her moans of delight brought on by the things he did to her. She dared him to take her to new heights, just as he dared her to use her creativity to take them to the next level.

Without preamble, she rose to her knees, grasping his erect shaft in her hands and smiling at his quick inhale at her touch. She drew him up hard, then caressed the head of his shaft with her thumb before circling it. His hand found her hair, buried itself in its silken strands. He wouldn't ask, wouldn't hint, she knew, but would leave the decision to her. Cupping his sac in one hand and kneading gently, she clasped the base of his erection in her hand then took him into her mouth. He moaned low in his throat and wobbled slightly at that first contact.

Never, in all his years of fantasizing about the woman on her knees before him, did he once imagine he would go first. It had never occurred to him that she would find such enjoyment in pleasuring him the way that she did. She paused in her motion to look up at him with mischief lighting her eyes, only to resume the task, stroking the underside of his shaft with her tongue, eliciting yet another moan from him, before nibbling on the engorged head and taking him back into the warmth of her moth. His breathing accelerated, as much from the daring that shone in her eyes as from her mouth surrounding him, suckling on him. Laura, his Laura, servicing him with her mouth… and liking it. He fought the impulse to thrust his hips towards her, allowing her to set the pace, to determine how far she wished to take this. By the gentle squeeze of his scrotum, he had to assume she meant to take him all the way as he could only stand, watching in disbelief, eyes dazed with passion. When his body shuddered, the orgasm rolling over him leaving him twitching in her mouth, he gently held her head to him while he breathily called her name, again and again. After, he fell to his knees, while she took a drink of her champagne.

His lips were seeking hers, his hands grasping her to him, roaming over her body before she managed to set her glass back down. This was yet another part of making love with Remington that she adored: Although she'd made it clear this first time was all about him, she knew he wouldn't be truly sated unless she was left a quivering bundle of nerves… a couple of times… as he was a man who drew enormous satisfaction from eliciting every ounce of pleasure from her slim form that he could. He took his time about it, trailing kisses over her neck, down her jaw; suckling beneath her ear, at the base of her neck; tracing patterns across her skin with the tip of his tongue; licking and nibbling at her hardened nipples before drawing them firmly into his mouth, where his tongue toyed with the tips. Her lingerie was slowly peeled away, amongst many compliments of it, and tossed aside. She was left squirming and squeaking beneath him, as he lapped contentedly at her inner folds, two fingers stroking her inside, until the powerful climax left her back arching from the floor while her hands pressed against his head, keeping him near her.

Fingers drawn through his hair, and a tug at his shoulders had him stretching his long slim body over hers until they were pressed skin-to skin, from chest to knee. His lips found hers, his tongue finding the taste of himself still lingering within the depths of her mouth. He'd grown hard, ready again, as he'd ministered to her needs, and breaking the kiss looked down at her in question.

"Anyway you want it, Remington," she whispered, as her lips blazed a trail along his jaw, before her mouth settled on his shoulder. Drawing the skin into her mouth, she sucked firmly. He threw back his head and released a staggered sigh at the sensation, at knowing she'd marked him as hers. Another surprise for her, this was. In her experience, a man liked to be the claimer not the claimed. But not this man, for he desired both, almost seeming to need it – proof that he was hers, she was his, if only for now.

"Laura," he mumbled, before slipping away to kneel between her legs. Grabbing two pillows, he slipped them beneath her hips, then lifted each of her legs, his forearms bracing the back of her knees. Easing forward, he pressed into her.

"Oh, god," she murmured, knowing he'd chosen this position to maximize her pleasure, the head of his penis coming into direct contact with her erotic zone with each stroke.

He found the perfect pace three strokes in, and quickly pushed her towards climax, clenching his jaw, fighting for control when she cried out, her muscles clamping down on him, drawing him high and tight into her depths. He waited until she stopped trembling before pulling out and urging her to turn over. Drawing her up on her hands and knees, he slipped back into her wet heat, then leaned over her, holding himself up on his hands.

"Lean on your elbows, baby," he directly softly, next to her ear, his breaths coming hard. "Mmmm. Good, good… now raise your back… just a little." She did so without question although her mind was racing with them. She found out first stroke in what he was about, expelling a long, shaky breath, when his shaft pressed hard against her most sensitive area.

"Remington," she groaned. He pressed a kiss between her shoulder blades.

"Hold on, babe. I have you," he assured her. Pulling out until just his tip remained, he pressed forward again, drawing a deep moan from her, the sensation overwhelming.

"Oh, god," she whispered into the bed.

At those two words, he began pumping deep and fast, feeling the tightening in his groin and knowing he wouldn't last much longer. He was determined, however, that she go with him. Beneath him, Laura released a staggered breath, stunned to realize she was quickly moving towards the edge of yet another powerful climax.

"Remington… please," she whispered into the room, a shiver coursing down her spine and pushing her even closer towards release when his lips left spark dancing across the back of her neck. When his mouth settled at the base, latching over her skin, his mouth tugging firmly, she cried out as the earth shattering orgasm ricocheted through her nerve endings.

"Laura," Remington groaned, and with a final thrust buried himself in her as deep as he could, her muscles clutching, clamping around him, while he held her hips firmly to his.

When the last quiver left her small body, he withdrew, shifting off her. She rolled to her back, finding his lips locked over hers, tenderly exploring, then he moved away. Laying his head beneath her ribs, he slung his arm over her waist, and tangled his fingers with hers, keeping her close. The fingers of her hand wiped the sweat from his brow, before they wandered through his damp hair. Another surprise for her, this. Except for the occasional hard, fast shag, meant to take the edge off before they got back to business, the man always sought to keep her close in the aftermath of their lovemaking, whether it be her holding him or him holding her.

"That was…" he panted, leaving the thought unsaid.

"I _agree_ ," she answered, drawing out the second word.

"Think your Santa approved of the show?" he asked, cheekily. The question made her sputter with laughter and she looked down at him, eyes dancing with amusement.

" _What!?"_ The word was elongated in her surprise.

"Well, even you must admit, he's quite the voyeur. Watching all those millions of kiddies throughout the year," he proposed. She gave some thought to the idea and shrugged.

"I guess we'll know in the morning. If our presents are still here, we can assume we earned his approval." He chuckled against her stomach.

"May have even learned a thing or two," he quipped, drawing a semi-horrified snort from her accompanied by a swat against his shoulder, but left her thoughtful.

"We _are_ good together, aren't we?" she quietly mused, plucking at the ends of his hair.

"Magnificent," he corrected. "Does that surprise you?" She mulled the question.

"I suppose not," she admitted. He rolled to his back, and tugged her hand, until they'd switched positions, she now slung partway across him, her head resting against his chest.

"Do you remember what you said about you and I as partners… in Cannes?" he asked, ignoring the clutching in his gut the memory of that night and the months which followed always inspired.

* * *

" _ **Look, why deny it? We're a terrific team, you and I."**_

* * *

"I do," she confirmed, somberly, no fonder of the remembrance of those days than he.

"We are amazing partners, fast friends… Why would you imagine the very elements that make those things possible wouldn't translate into our new role of lovers? Hmmm?" She traced patterns in his chest with the tip of her finger, as she again considered his question.

"I guess I haven't given it a lot of thought, honestly," she responded, truthfully. _And I don't want to think about it now,_ she admitted to herself. It seemed so many conversations these days edged closer to requiring them to define what they were to one another, what all _this_ really meant. She knew what it meant to her, what he was to her, but had no idea what he was feeling. Pushing herself up to lean on an elbow, she decided a distraction was in order. Her hand caressed his chest as her lips and tongue lathed that exquisitely sensitive area beneath his ear. He closed his eyes, her ministrations making his body come alive with the quiescent ardor that always lay just beneath the surface.

"An encore, then?" he hummed the question. Leaning back, she looked down at him, waiting until he opened his eyes and met hers.

"Well, I _am_ going to be gone for _ten_ days..." she pointed out, a sultry undertone tracing through her lilting voice. Wrapping an arm around her, he rolled her to her back.

"That you are. Your turn then." Her lips lifted in a smile. "And you know what the means, don't you? Hmmmm?" He bobbled his head before stealing a sweet kiss from her lips. She knew _exactly_ what that meant and her body quivered at the mere thought.

"This is going to take a while…"

"A very…" he brushed his lips against one side of her mouth "… very…" then the other "… long while" then covered her lips fully.

And it did… a very long while.


	3. Chapter 3: Parting

Chapter 3: Parting

As had become his habit on those treasured weekends when he found himself sleeping with Laura by his side, tucked against his body in one manner or another, Remington woke before her. This morning, he found her spooned into his body, he wrapped around hers, a leg pillowed between hers, an arm about her waist. With the catlike grace and stealthy moves of a panther, learned during the years he'd traversed the shadowy side of the street, he eased away from her so he might push up to rest on an arm and watch her. He stifled the groan the movement begged to rip from his throat, his arms screaming, his body aching, caused by them indulging themselves throughout the night into the wee hours of the morning. They'd taken the time for a quick shower as dawn crested the horizon, before wearily and contentedly collapsing on the bed for a few, brief hours of sleep.

It seemed their antics had left his lady fair quite exhausted, for she slept on, appearing wholly unaware on any level, at all, that he'd left his dreams for reality. He loved these moments spent with her, she sleeping peacefully, no doubts cresting her brow, making her lovely amber eyes slightly dull with worry. She imagined that she hid those feelings from him, forgetting for a moment that no one knew her as well as he… or at least that is what he wished to believe. He wondered, as he lifted her hair over her shoulder so a pair of fingers might, in a whisper soft touch, trace her collarbone, if she was aware of the conflicting messages she unwittingly sent him. A sincere admission that he already regretted the ten days which they'd soon spend apart, met with a dismissive comment; her questioning their ability to spend the entirety of ten days together; then her stunned acknowledgment that they were, indeed, so good together, on every level: Friends, partners, lovers.

Then, of course, there was that line, the bloody line she'd drawn firmly separating the personal from the professional. Two days a week, it was all he was guaranteed, and, even then, only if there wasn't a pressing business matter to which to attend. It wasn't enough. He wanted it all: every morning, every night and all the hours in between, the only question being should they move into his flat or her loft. Hell, he'd even willingly traverse those damnable stairs each day if it meant they were unequivocally, wholly together.

But to voice that thought, even to voice _those_ words, when he was never quite sure which Laura was before him? The Laura who, every once in a while, relaxed fully into them, what they were to one another and dared to believe, if only for a moment, that he might be in this for the long haul? Or the Laura who still believed he'd cut a fast tango through her life, leaving her holding nothing but that scrapbook full of memories? The former appearing more and more these days, but still far too seldom, in his eyes; the latter nearly ever present. The former's response likely to soothe his fearful heart; the latter to leave it scattered about in pieces as had been done twice previously. No, the risk was too great, leaving him only the option of _showing_ her what she meant to him. Deeds. They'd done him well for most of his life, it was those he must put his faith in.

Laura stirred next to him, her hand reaching back in search of him. He let her find him, pressing his body close to hers again, while bending down to trail kisses along her neck, across her shoulder. His blue eyes rested on her lips, waited for them to lift in a soft smile before his hand joined the fray, stroking her waist. She hummed contentedly, encouraging his hand to slide upward to caress a breast, a finger circling ever inward around her nipple, a pair of fingers then plucking, teasing, until she squirmed. She moved to turn over, but an arm at her waist held her firmly in place.

"Mmmm mmmm, like this," he dissented against her shoulder, as he lifted her leg and lay it over his hip. A hand reached between her folds, found her already wet, hot and ready for him. Positioning himself, he pressed inwards. They both gasped, tender from the long night before. Shifting, he maneuvered his arm between her and the bed, so a hand could lavish attention on her breasts while his other hand slipped between her legs, his fingers stroking, teasing the bundle of nerves at the center of her ardor. In short order, she was squirming, pushing her bottom against him, urging him to move.

"More," she whispered the plea.

He was only too willing to comply, stroking slowly to keep her hanging on the precipice as long as possible. When the climax at last rolled through her slim frame, he closed his eyes and joined her.

* * *

The second time he awoke on the morning, it was Remington who found a pair of bemused brown eyes peering down at him, as a set of fingers stroked through his hair.

"We have less than two hours until I leave, Mr. Steele," Laura announced.

"As difficult as it is for me to deny you just about anything, I'm afraid I must raise the white flag and surrender, Miss Holt," he mumbled, closing his eyes and snuggling his head back down in his pillow. She smothered a laugh and ruffed his hair.

"Presents?" she reminded him. Although his eyes remained closed, a smile lifted his lips.

"Best present I've ever received, it was," he complimented. His arms wrapped around her, and he nudged her back onto her side, spooning around her again… Then grunted when an elbow met his stomach. His eyes flew open and he rolled away from her, rubbing at the offended area. "Bloody hell, Laura, there are any number of more pleasant ways to wake a man."

"You weren't paying attention," she retorted, unapologetically, while resuming her perch above him. "Presents," she repeated. He lifted both hands to scrub at his face, only dropping them when he felt the bed move. If presents weren't enough to encourage him out of bed, the sight of his lovely partner strolling across her bedroom in her altogether was. "I'll make us a cup of tea," she offered, as she slipped on her robe.

Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, Remington rubbed at his face again, then streaked his fingers through his hair, attempting to tame the locks standing on end. This was foreign territory for him, waking on Christmas morning to presents under the tree for him… even if it were only a pseudo Christmas. But far be it from him to temper Laura's excitement. Some water splashed in his face, a scrub at his teeth, a bit of Visine to soothe eyes that felt like sandpaper, and he should be good to go… at least until he'd seen her off airport, at which point he could return home and tumble back into bed for a few more winks.

"If you don't mind, can you set the oven to three-fifty?" he called to Laura, whilst pulling on his robe and stumbling towards the bathroom.

"Will we have time for breakfast?" she called back, turning on the oven as requested.

"A simple one, yes," he answered, before shutting the bathroom door behind him. It was one thing for them to share accommodations while he shaved and she braided her hair, quite another to take the blossom off the rose by sharing other… functions… at least in his eyes. By the time the teapot whistled, he'd even managed to squeeze in a shave, leaving more time for breakfast preparations. She handed him his cup of tea when they met at the tree. Taking a sip, he nodded in approval. The woman might not be able to make a piece of toast without turning it into a blackened briquet, and brewed a pot of coffee that would put hair on a woman's chest, forget a man's, but she could make a fine cup of tea.

"Thank you." He pressed a kiss to her cheek in gratitude, then held her cup as she seated herself before the tree. Handing her both mugs, he joined her, stretching out on his side, ankles crossed. "I'm afraid this is far outside of my realm of experience…" Her heart clenched at the reminder, and she recalled the story he'd shared the day before.

"There's not much to it, Mr. Steele," she answered lightly, selecting the largest of packages him from beneath the tree and handing it to him. "We can either take turns, or after you finish, I begin. Your choice."

"Uh, turns, I think," he answered, with a scratch at his nose, before taking the gift from her. "So, what have we here?" He gave the box a bit of a shake, and found that revealed nothing. Tearing part of the paper away, he watched as she cringed. A mischievous smile spread across his face, and he tore the paper with zeal, his eye never leaving her. _Ah yes, a bit of fun, that was._

"It took me ten minutes to wrap that," she lamented, staring at the scraps scattered about.

"Yet, myself only ten seconds to unwrap. Makes you wonder about what you could be doing elsewise with that time, if not wrapping, eh?" Her eyes narrowed on him.

"Maybe next year I'll just drop your gifts into a grocery bag and toss them under the tree, for expediency's sake," she fairly growled. His grin widened at her assumption they'd be spending the following Christmas together as well, and wondered if she'd caught the slip of the tongue.

"So, long as that tree is in Vail, feel free to have at it," he quipped.

"The present, Mr. Steele." If she'd been standing, her foot would have been tapping with impatience. He worked open the flaps of the box, and peered inside. Twinkling blue eyes met self-satisfied amber ones.

"Unless I've missed my mark, it's the entire MGM library currently released to video tape."

"Never say I don't keep my promises." He leaned in and tapped his lips against hers.

"Thank you, Laura." Reaching under the tree, he selected the slimmest of packages for her. Handing it to her, he stood up.

"Where are you going?" she protested.

"By my estimation, I should have breakfast nearly finished by the time you've—" She gave a short, surprised laugh, and hard tug at the hem of his robe left him with a choice to be disrobed or sit.

"Get back here," she demanded. Resuming his position, he waited until at last the she removed the paper. He couldn't help but note his tea had gone from hot to tepid during the wait. She sorted through the four scorebooks, studying Debussy's _Preludes, Book I_ at length. "I've wanted to pick this up since it was released three months ago. How did you know?"

"Your 'To Do' list in the kitchen drawer? It remains on the list," he provided. A smile lifted her lips.

"Very nice detective work, Mr. Steele," she praised. Setting the books aside, she debated about which gift to give him next, either holding the possibility of making her squirm. _Ah, hell_ , she muttered to herself silently, and picked up the smaller of the two. She couldn't help the pained look that took residence on her face as he merrily destroyed the wrapping, much as the first.

"Ties and pocket squares," he noted, a smile twitching at his lips as he imagined any number of his suits he might now align with her wardrobe. "You've excellent taste, Miss, Holt and must have read my mind. I was considering going shopping for just this in the week ahead." The pained look was replaced by a wide smile and flashing dimples. He pondered the two gifts remaining and handed her the larger. "I believe this is for you." It was an exercise of patience, and he fought the compulsion to check his watch for the time. Every second of the wait was worth it when her eyes widened and she let out a little gasp.

"How?" she breathed, looking down at several seasons of her favorite childhood television show on videotape. "You can't buy these!"

"With a bit of help from Atomic Man, himself, of course," he grinned, tickled by her reaction. "As it turns out, one of Monroe's men is quite handy with computers, and has quite the set up at his home. He created the sleeves and labels." She leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, allowing the kiss to lengthen before pulling away.

"Thank you," she said with quiet sincerity, then suddenly seemed to deflate before his eyes.

"What? What is it?" She threw up her hands and dropped them.

"I don't have a VCR!" she despaired.

"Ah, but _I do_." She looked at him as though he'd gone mad.

"Mr. Steele, might I remind you, you could barely withstand watching one episode, and you're going to watch…" she looked down at the tapes and estimated, "… _sixty_ with me?"

"Absolutely, if it means more time spent with you." The tone of his voice, the earnest look in his eyes, made her heart speed up. Her eyes held his, looking for any sign of insincerity, and she found what she was searching for completely absent. _Does he…?_ She scampered away from that thought.

"Be careful what you ask for. I have visions of an all afternoon and evening Atomic Man marathon dancing through my head now." He quirked a single brow at her.

"A connoisseur of Christmas I may not be, Miss Holt, but even I know it should be sugar plums dancing about in that head of yours." She lifted her eyes heavenward, even as she handed him his last present. Like the presents before, the wrapping paper was mutilated and tossed aside. Opening the robe box, he fingered the silk of robe and pajamas.

"Nighttime attire for here, then?" he inquired, zeroing in, with deadly accuracy, on what she'd had in mind when she'd purchased them.

"If you'd like," she answered vaguely, feeling the blush crawl up her skin, embarrassed at having been figured out so easily. Reaching out, he cupped her neck, and drew her down to him until they were nearly nose-to-nose. Only when their eyes connected, did he speak.

"Actually, I'm quite fond of the idea." Her eyes lit up at the admission and he drew her into a sizzling kiss, which left those same brown eyes dazed when he released her. Reaching under the tree, he handed her the last present. "I was of much the same mind… to buy you a robe, nightwear for my flat. But, truth be told, I find you utterly beguiling when wrapped and draped in mine."

"Given the size of the box," she indicated the present she was unwrapping, "It would seem you changed your mind."

"As I said, I enjoy you wearing mine," he grinned. "I'd decide on a watch instead, gold with little diamonds on the face. But, of course, we know what prevented that from happening."

"I don't need the watch," she assured him. "I couldn't ask for more than you've already given me." The last of the wrapping paper came free and setting it aside, she stared, disbelieving, at the two boxes held in her hand. " _Parlays?!_ But how? I only told you this story yesterday morning and they're _impossible_ to come by."

"For people in the know…" he teased, laying a finger against the side of his nose. He sobered, but the wide smile remained on his face, as she opened the first box and closed her eyes when she slipped one of the candies in her mouth. "You'd be amazed what a little money in the right palm can make happen." She shoved the box towards him.

"Try one," she offered. Indigo colored eyes, heated from desire for the woman before him, stayed on her as he reached blindly for a piece of the candy.

"I think I will," he hummed, "But as I sampled the chocolate truffles in Brussels." She blushed prettily at the reminder, but wagged her brows at him while her eyes danced with merriment. When he sat up, and folded over her, she allowed him to lower her to her back, before he stretched out next to her then held a piece of the candy close to her lips. Her eyes holding his, she took a bite. Her eyes closed as she savored the tasty morsel. Burying a hand in her hair, he leaned down and locked his lips over hers, doing some savoring of his own.

"Delicious," he murmured against her lips, before delving deep, tasting her and the Parlay swirling together. He hummed, then withdrew, holding up the candy again. A dimple appeared in a cheek, before she took another bite, and his lips captured hers again. He fed hungrily on her lips, his tongue darting into her welcoming mouth again and again. Finally, both breathing heavily, he slowed the kiss then ended it, propping himself on an elbow and looking down at her. "I can say without equivocation, I've never tasted anything quite so… heavenly."

"I told you they were good," she answered, smugly.

"I wasn't speaking of the candy, Miss Holt," he corrected, his eyes, his face, painted with the same earnest sincerity of earlier. She shivered a bit, searching his face. "I'm hungry." She wasn't quite certain where the words came from, or that she even was. His lips lifted in a knowing smile, and pursing his lips, he nodded.

"Of course you are," he agreed. Standing, he offered a hand up. "Might I recommend we prepare for the day given we've a little less than an hour before Fred appears?"

"You don't have to go to the airport, Mr. Steele. I'm sure there are any number of more interesting things you could be doing," she pointed out.

"I know I don't _have to_ , Laura, but it's my time, and this is how I prefer to spend it," he countered.

"Alright." She drew out the word, setting aside her compulsion to argue. Truth be told, she wanted him to accompany her to the airport, to spend a bit more time with him before she departed.

For expediencies sake, they'd agreed Remington would shower and dress first, since he'd planned to prepare breakfast before Laura's departure for the airport. A shower shared would likely end with predictable results, an interlude neither her timetable nor their bodies could withstand. Despite their consensus, she'd made predictions as to the state of his health should he use all the hot water her meager tank allowed for, a threat she'd realized too late she shouldn't have made, as the man's perverted sense of humor guaranteed the warm water would be all but gone by the time her turn arrived.

Indeed, nearly as soon as she'd stepped under the showerhead, the water turned first tepid then almost instantly cold, wrenching a shriek of outrage from her throat. In the kitchen, the man responsible for her predicament chuckled as he set croissants in the oven to bake, while the offended woman damned him to an eternity in purgatory beneath her breath.

"Paybacks, Mr. Steele," she sing-songed loudly enough to be heard in the kitchen, turning that chuckle into a full blow laugh.

By the time Fred arrived, they'd both showered, dressed and had feasted on a breakfast of eggs, sausage, fresh fruit, and freshly baked croissants made by Remington's hand. Dishes were washed, dried and in the cabinet; table wiped down and cleaned. Laura slipped the open box of parlays into her carryon, to which he added a turkey, Havarti and sun-dried tomato wrap and some carrot sticks, given the substandard qualities of meals on planes these days. The trip to the airport seemed shorter than normal, and before they knew it, they were sitting at Laura's departure gate, waiting for her flight to be called.

"Do you realize, that apart from…" he grimaced and waved about the hand not holding her's, "… last summer, this will be the most time we've spent apart in three and a half years?" She remained quiet but nodded her head in answer. "Is your mother picking you up at the airport?" he tried again.

"No," she drew out the word. "Donald."

"Staying with Donald and Frances, then?" he inquired. She shook her head.

"At Mother's." She looked away, ill at ease with the sudden awkwardness that had appeared between them. "Do you have any plans while the Agency's closed?" He resisted the urge to say _Yes, as a matter of fact, ten days of romance with a certain young woman in Vail. At least I did._

"Jocelyn's visiting her parents," he said, instead, "So Monroe and I might meet up a time or three. A little fencing. A poker game. Perhaps a few rounds of billiards?" He shrugged. "Otherwise, I've a mind to buy a coat." The last caught her up short, and she laughed aloud.

"A coat?" she echoed. The question was met with another shrug as the overhead speaker announced boarding of all first-class ticket holders. Standing, he held out a hand to her. They faced one another once she stood. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked towards the gate.

"'I don't know how to say goodbye.' I feel a bit like Nick Ferrante, wondering if I'll find you waiting for me at the Empire State Building," he admitted.

"Mixing your movies, aren't you Mr. Steele?" He turned to look at her, head cocked sideways, trying to figure out what she meant, then a slow smile spread across his face as he put it together.

"Very good, Miss Holt," he praised. "Audrey Hepburn to Gregory Peck, _A Roman Holiday_ , Paramount, 1953 and…?"

" _An Affair to Remember,_ Cary Grant, Deborah Kerr, Twentieth Century Fox…" She scrunched her face, then shrugged her shoulders.

"1957," he finished for her. Taking a hand from his pocket, he swept her hair over a shoulder. She shifted on her feet. _I feel like a teenaged girl departing for summer camp and leaving her first boyfriend behind,_ she lamented to herself.

"I should…" she turned and looked at the gate. Pursing his lips, he nodded, slowly.

"Will you… call… let me know you've arrived safely?" he asked. _Bloody hell, I feel like Rick Blaine, preparing to watch Ilsa walk out of his life, once and for all,_ he silently repined.

"I will," she agreed. Reluctantly, he picked up her carry-on and rested the strap over her shoulder, before shoving his hands back in his pockets, and rocking back on his heels. Pressing up on her tiptoes, she brushed his cheek with her lips. "I'll… I'll see you next week." He yanked his hand from his pocket and gripped her wrist as she turned to leave. She looked up at him, perplexed.

"Damn it, Laura," he growled, his bright blue eyes strained, "I want to give you a proper goodbye."

"What's stopping you?" He gave her a look that suggested she'd taken leave of her senses, then directed his eyes to the crowds milling around them.

"This is not a ballroom in London. What if-?" he left the question unsaid.

"We've posed as a couple any number of times in the past," she pointed out, logically. The simple truth was, she wanted that proper goodbye, bedamned the consequences. He looked at her uncertainly, then glanced about the airport once more.

"Then, come here," he demanded in an undertone. If she was expecting a ravenous kiss, she would have found herself sorely mistaken, for instead he cupped her face with his hands, and drew her up. His lips barely grazed hers, once, twice, then lingered for a few long seconds, before his arms wrapped around her and pulled her into a hug. A dozen things tramped through his mind that he wished to say. Stay… Don't go… I'll miss you… I—

"I'll see you in ten days," Laura said instead, then, with a press of her lips against his neck, slipped from his arms, and marched resolutely towards the gangway.

And, like Rick his Ilsa, he could only watch as she disappeared.


	4. Chapter 4 - Escape

Chapter 4: Escape

Shortly before the hour hand on her watch officially changed Monday night into Tuesday morning, Laura stumbled through the door of Remington's apartment and instructed the cab driver just to drop her luggage 'wherever.' Extracting several bills from her wallet, she pressed them into the palm of the driver's hand, then shut and locked the door behind him.

She'd come home after four days. Call her a coward, if you will, but if there was one person on the earth who could make Laura Holt run hard and far… other than Remington Steele, that is… it was Abigail Holt. The first twenty-four hours she was in Connecticut, Abigail had lectured her non-stop about her marital status.

" _You're not getting any younger, dear."_

Then, over the next twelve Abigail had gone on a running diatribe as to why being private detective might be exciting, but it was also likely running off untold numbers of potential candidates for marriage.

" _It's all well and good you enjoy the excitement, dear, but no man wants his wife running off day and night to chase a thief, or, God forbid, a murderer. It's just, well,_ _unseemly_ _if you ask me."_

Then, midway through her second day in Connecticut her mother had announced before Frances, Donald and the children, that she'd set Laura up on a blind date.

"Such a nice young man, from a good family. And an ophthalmologist, darling. He'll certainly be able to provide for a family."

Well, that announcement had been enough to set off Laura's temper. She'd tried, she really had, to rationalize with her mother, observing she'd be returning to LA in only a few days so there was little point. When that hadn't worked, she'd tried Abigail's old line when a friend would set her up on a blind date: 'Do you think that's wise dear? For all you know, he might be an axe murderer.' But Abigail had brushed aside that argument.

" _Don't be ridiculous, Laura. Ophthalmologists_ _are not_ _axe murderers."_

When that had failed, she'd argued she already was seeing someone, which was immediately poo-pooed by her mother.

" _Of course you are, dear. Now, he'll be here at seven. If you don't have something appropriate to wear, I'm sure Frances will loan you something."_

It had been the straw that broke the camel's proverbial back.

"Mother, the only way this _ophthalmologist_ ," she said the last word with no little disdain, "Will be going to dinner with anyone named Holt this evening is if _you_ go, because _I'm not!_ "

Which, of course, had ended badly. Two more days of lectures, this time on how the youngest Holt daughter had once again humiliated her.

" _How will I ever show my face at Junior League next week?"_

Then there was Frances. Frances who'd done nothing but cry buckets… pools… _oceans_ of tears since Laura had arrived. Frances who didn't want to move. She loved her house, their neighbors, their neighborhood. The kids loved their school, their friends. They'd attended the same church since Mindy was born, and wanted the kids to complete their communions and confirmations there, nowhere else. She hadn't lived in LA since she was nineteen years old, and she didn't want to go back.

"The children love the snow, Laura. I love the snow," Frances had grieved. "There's no snow in LA, _Laura_!"

Frances had a surprise of her own, which only aided in further tweaking Laura's already simmering temper: She and Donald had hired movers to pack up the house, so Laura's assistance wasn't needed there at all. Rather, her presence was needed at the all weekend garage sale. She'd valiantly fought off the urge to yell, 'Are you crazy? Who has a garage sale, in Connecticut, in the middle of winter, on the weekend after Christmas?!' After two days, only a few old toys had sold to children from the neighborhood who had Christmas money burning a hole in their pockets, which had just upset Frances further.

By midway through day four, she'd had more than her fill. She was tired, irritable and her stress level had long ago reached well into the stratosphere. On top of it all she was freezing her… socks… off, which she could just as well be doing in Vail, but at least there she'd not only be enjoying skiing but would have a very warm body which would be only more than happy to chase away the chill. So, without an ounce of guilt, she changed her flight to a red-eye back to LA, departing that evening, and declared unavoidable work duties had called.

And now, here she was, home in LA. In Remington's apartment. Waiting for him to get home from an evening out with Monroe. Feeling very much like that teenaged girl once more.

They'd spoken twice since she'd left: on the evening of her arrival and again the night prior. She hadn't called to tell him she'd decided to return to LA early, thinking to surprise him. But now that she was here, she was finding she needed every ounce of courage she could dredge up, not to haul her suitcases back downstairs and go to her loft. Exhaustion, in the end, made that decision for her. She'd been up since six, Connecticut time, and it was verging on three-thirty there now. Twenty-one and a half hours on her feet or traveling, after having little restful sleep since the night prior to Dancer and gang taking the Agency hostage. Shedding her clothes, she yanked one of Remington's pajama tops from his drawer, slipped it on then tumbled into bed. She was asleep nearly as soon as she burrowed her head in his pillow.

It was approaching two a.m. when Remington strode through the lobby of the Rossmore and depressed the 'up' button on the elevator. Threading his hand through his hair, he waited impatiently for the car to arrive. He'd been brooding and on the verge of surly all night. It hadn't effected his ability to shoot pool, not in the least, and he and Monroe had relieved many poor souls of a decent amount of blunt on the evening. Still, his mood was poor enough that with time enough for a few more games, Monroe had slapped him on the shoulder and recommended he go home. He hadn't argued the suggestion, thinking his friend had deflected more than his fair share of acerbic remarks on the evening. Perhaps a snifter of brandy and a viewing of _White Heat_ might prove the elixir which would allow him to sleep.

The car at last arrived and he stepped inside, depressing the button for the fifth floor.

The truth of the matter was neither held the remedy for what ailed him. He was bored, mind-numbingly bored. Not a surprise, necessarily, given he'd spent a better half of his life always on the move, be it from place-to-place, or from one event to the next. It was harder for him to honestly admit, even to himself, that he was simply lonely. There was a vast chasm in his life which a singular person had filled for years now. This same loneliness had nearly eaten him alive the summer prior when they were apart, and now here it was again. It was hard, these days, to even remember a time when they didn't see each other, or at least speak, daily. But here they were, nearing on five days apart, and he'd heard that lovely, lilting voice of hers only twice. He'd pay a king's ransom to hear it now, even raised an octave or two higher than normal as she took him to task for whatever nefarious deed he'd committed on the day.

Departing the elevator, he had to wonder if this was the price one paid for being absolutely head-over-heels, completely gobsmacked for a woman. If so, he didn't know if he cared for it… cared for it at all. Not a new sentiment of course, as it was one he'd carried with him for years. If he hadn't suspected before Cannes that the woman had stolen his heart, and he did, he certainly would have realized it in the months that followed.

Pausing, key to his apartment in his hand, he allowed himself a brief moment of fantasy. He could simply jump in the Auburn, head to LAX, hop on a plane to Connecticut and when he arrived on Abigail's doorstep inform the woman Laura belonged with him at home and that's precisely where he'd be taking her, sod all the rest of her family obligations. He may well have acted on the fantasy, if he weren't fairly certain once he'd picked himself up off the floor, it would only be for Laura to kick his arse to the curb for such a fiasco.

"Brandy and _White Heat_ it is, then, Steele ole, boy," he admitted aloud. Heaving a sigh, he unlocked the door and swung it open. The only decision that remained was whether to shower before or after the movie. Shutting the door behind himself and locking it, he tossed his keys on the credenza and turned on the lamp there.

And froze, his eyes settling, disbelievingly, on the suitcases parked at the end of the credenza. A slow smile lifted his lips, his eyes shifting first to the empty couch then to the bedroom door. By the time he reached the bedroom, he already had unbuttoned and shrugged off his shirt. He stood staring at the petite woman sound asleep in his bed, and wondered how that alone was enough to set his world right again. As silently as a cat, he stripped off the rest of his clothes then pulled on the lounge pants that matched the shirt she'd chosen. Slipping into bed next to her, he ran a firm hand down her arm, then waited as she wriggled over to nuzzle her head into that spot below his shoulder he was convinced had been made just for her, and slung an arm and leg over his body.

"Apres ski, Mr. Steele?" she murmured, her raspy, quiet voice making it clear she wasn't long for this world. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, the nuzzled his cheek against it.

"For you, Miss Holt? Absolutely." She nodded her head, then he felt as much as heard the sigh which said she'd returned to her dreams.

Closing his eyes, the familiar scent of honeysuckle, grass and sunshine surrounded him and he allowed the comforting feeling of a small hand laying over his heart, lull him to sleep.

Apres ski, indeed.


End file.
